But Hawthorne was in no hurry as we climbed back up to street level at Charing Cross station. I saw him take out his cigarettes and knew what he wanted. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ he asked.

‘Not really,’ I said. I looked at my watch. ‘The play begins in an hour.’

‘I’ve already seen it.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting we go in and see it, Hawthorne. I mean—’ I played back what he had said. ‘You’ve seen it? When?’

‘I went to the Wednesday matinée. I was on my way home when you called from the custody centre.’

‘What did you think of it?’ After everything that had happened in the last two days, was that really the question I’d just asked? But it was out of my mouth before I could stop it. It really mattered to me.

‘I thought it was very good. Very witty. William enjoyed it too.’

‘You took your son?’

Hawthorne nodded. ‘His school closed early for staff training and the kids had the afternoon off.’

‘He didn’t think it was too violent?’

‘You should see his school!’ Hawthorne lit a cigarette before I could stop him. ‘He didn’t get some of it, but nor did I – and that gave us something to talk about afterwards.’

I felt an unusual sense of warmth towards Hawthorne and I was annoyed with myself for what I’d just been thinking. ‘You should have let me buy the tickets,’ I said. ‘I could have got them half-price.’

‘That’s OK, Tony. They were selling them two for the price of one anyway.’

The theatre was right in front of us. The pavement outside the main entrance was deserted. Not a good sign.

‘I suppose we’re here to see the actors,’ I said. ‘They’ll be onstage in an hour.’

‘Plenty of time, mate. Lucky it’s a small cast!’

We ducked round the side and went up Lumley Court, one of those old, forgotten alleyways that London does so well. On one side, the wall was topped with razor wire. On the other, a set of double doors provided an emergency exit from the theatre itself. Hawthorne tested the doors – he did it without thinking – and seemed to be pleased that they were firmly secured. We then climbed a short flight of concrete steps that led up to Maiden Lane and the stage door.

I remembered coming here after the first-night party when I was still hoping the play would be a success. It felt like a lifetime ago … and someone else’s life.

The back of the theatre felt even more deserted than the front, but, as always, Keith was perched at his desk, surrounded by old-fashioned telephones with large punch buttons and four small TV screens. I have described him as the deputy stage-door manager, but he’d only been at the theatre for a short while and it was unclear if he was temporary or permanent. He was only in his thirties – most of the stage-door managers I’d met had been much older than that and very much the cornerstone of the buildings they guarded. Keith was more wayward, sitting with his legs stretched out, displaying grubby jeans and trainers. Whenever I went past him, he seemed to be rolling a cigarette, although I’d never actually seen him smoke one.